Here is Gone
by Sleep Walking Chicken
Summary: Himawari often felt that there was nothing that could ever reach her. Mentions of DoumekiWatanukiHimawari if you squint.


**Title:** Here is Gone  
**Series:** xxxHOLiC and Clover  
**Characters/Pairings:** Himawari-centric; slight Himawari/Watanuki/Doumeki (if you squint) and mentions of Oruha/Kazuhiko  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Inspired by the Goo Goo Dolls' song of the same title. I felt it was a fitting song.  
**Excuses:** Himawari and Oruha have the same hair?  
**Warnings:** Probably doesn't make sense. Also, spoilers for Himawari's life (and volume 10, I think it was.)

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When she was young, her mother would check her over once or twice before sending her on her way. She would walk behind the normal people and wonder what it's like to hold hands and to hug and to be i close /i . Once upon a time, she would try to be close to them. But they would trip. They would get sick. They would die.

After school she would go directly home and her mother would be there waiting, and she would smile sympathetically because even if she never said anything her mother always knew. And she would grab her hands and lead her into the kitchen, where she would sit the child down and brush her hair. The long, wavy hair so similar to her mother's own.

And she would wonder if this was what it felt like to be close to someone. Her mother would not trip, she would not get sick, she would not die. Her fingers would comb through her long hair and tingle her scalp, and she'd wonder if her mother would ever let her return the favor.

She'd sit by her window at night and watch the rain fall, splattering against the window pane and slipping downwards like tear drops. She'd close her eyes and rest her head against the wall, breathing in the sound of rainfall. And she'd wake up tucked into bed but without any lingering warmth.

When she grew older she would watch the backs of students with a resound apathy acquired through years of willing reclusiveness. Loneliness was not something she felt anymore. To her, it was that same hollow aching that she always felt. But it didn't matter.

She'd go home and her mother would comb her hair but it wasn't quite the same anymore.

She'd go to her room and rest against the wall, watching the rain fall. The raindrops would slip down the window. The window would fog up with her breath as she tried to find meaning in this rainfall. A meaning that never came. There was never anything.

"Himawari-chan," Watanuki would say the next day and he would smile at her. She would smile back and the rain would stop. For a while. She would watch them from afar—Watanuki and Doumeki—and wonder if she would ever belong to their world.

She would walk through the halls of her high school, and she would not be moved. She would not be touched. She would move as if a shadow, and she wanted it that way. She avoided, but could not avoid them. She could not avoid Watanuki and Doumeki.

She would go home and bow her head, and the presence of her mother's fingers was only a passing thought.

Her father would come home and she would watch her parents smile at one another. They would ask her how her day was and see the carefully veiled heartbreak in their daughter's eyes, and they would wonder, why couldn't she be happy? And she would wonder, why do they love me so?

She wondered if she could ever be part of their world, the world they'd created together. Her mother would smile at her father and it was perfect. They would smile at their daughter and she felt like an intruder. She belonged to no one, and nothing belonged to her. She would sit at her window and watch the raindrops fall away, blurring her vision.

"Himawari-chan!" Watanuki would chorus.

"Kunogi," Doumeki would greet.

She would watch them and smile. She would be there. But she was never really there. She was at her window, watching the world through a veil of rain.

She could not be moved.

And she would lock herself away and still long to be free. She could feel herself falling. She could fell her reality, her here, her being slipping away further and further. But she would smile and hide it. She would smile and smile and smile until she broke.

At night she would watch the rainfall through her window. At school she would watch Watanuki fall through the window.

She would return home and her mother would pull her fingers through her hair. But it wasn't the same and she would stand up and smile, saying to her mother that she was fine. She didn't want her mother to lift her hair and see the scars.

Her mother would smile back and she would look so beautiful. And she would wonder why she didn't look like that, why she didn't look so beautiful. And the rain would poor down. She'd wake up in the morning in her bed and not remember being moved.

She would go to school and Watanuki and Doumeki would be there. And she would feel herself wanting to run, wanting to hide, wanting to distance herself. The bird on her shoulder—so tiny she almost forgot he was there, so unused to his presence was she—would nip at her earlobe and she would remember. She would smile and she would laugh. And for once in her life it felt real.

At night she would watch the rain stop and the stars come out, and Tanpopo would sing in her ear a tiny, little song and she would smile, because her thoughts would drift to the people who had allowed her in her world. She would fall asleep with a smile on her face. She would wake up with a smile on her face.

And she would feel that lingering warmth on her skin. She would come downstairs and smile at her parents. One hand would lift in welcome and she would thank them for always placing her in her bed.

Her mother would run her fingers through her daughter's hair and smile, pressing her lips to her forehead and wishing her a good morning. Her father would touch her shoulder, a light touch and a soft smile. And Himawari would know she was free.


End file.
